


Cube Escape: Birthday; Let Dale Vandermeer Have One Nice Thing, Please

by The_narwhals_awaken



Series: Rusty Lake: Perspective [8]
Category: Rusty Lake | Cube Escape (Video Games)
Genre: But they get better, Canon-Typical Violence, Game: Cube Escape: Birthday, Gen, People get shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-18
Updated: 2020-11-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27613549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_narwhals_awaken/pseuds/The_narwhals_awaken
Summary: Dale Vandermeer has been transported back to winter 1939, and one of the worst days of his life- his ninth birthday.
Series: Rusty Lake: Perspective [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1946701
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	Cube Escape: Birthday; Let Dale Vandermeer Have One Nice Thing, Please

It is a grey emptiness, filled with cubes. Dale Vandermeer was in an elevator, rising slowly upwards through the void. It was 1972, although he didn’t know how he knew that. He felt different, like he couldn’t feel his body anymore. When he looked down at himself, he had started to flicker between his normal suit and skin, and a black, staticy corrupted soul. Dale looked out of the grate and knew that his memories were the cubes drifting around him. The elevator slowed, and the grate opened. Three cubes drifted downwards, before one slowed and centered itself in front of him. Dale reached out and touched it. The numbers 1939 appeared in front of him, as one face turned a pale pink. It was a familiar color, was his last thought before falling into the cube. The memory it held was his ninth birthday.

Pennants were hanging from the ceiling, and a tiny copy of  _ Starry Night _ hung next to a child’s drawing of a tree next to houses. It was his childhood home. There was a low table, with cake, a present, and a balloon on it. On a stool sat his mother, in a blue dress, smiling. On a chair sat his father, leaning back and smiling in a way that had been so rare, then. Behind him sat a box on a table. Dale smiled, poking the balloon only to see it go flying. Stepping closer, his mother asked him to check the mail in that quiet, sweet way of hers. 

Dale turned once. There were only two pennants here, and outside it was snowing heavily. The balloon was on the ground, in front of the sink, stove, fridge, and stacked cabinets. He picked it up, then pushed aside the curtains under the sink to get the box of matches. He turned again.

Above the door was another full line of pennants. There was a phonograph above a chest of drawers, and on the other wall, a poster for the theater. Perhaps they’d go, sometime. A fine chill ran down his back as he checked the mail, finding a letter marked for him. Carefully, he picked it up, before reading:  _ Dear Dale, Congratulations with your 9th birthday. Today will be the darkest day of your life. But the past is never dead. Have a look at your present, it could turn your day around. Yours sincerely, Mr. Owl _

Dale paused. Things were changing, as he vaguely remembered that letter being from an aunt, and merely being so bland that even the three quarters she’d left were forgettable- or perhaps it was that he did his best not to dwell on the events of that day.

He flipped the letter over, taking the stamp, then turned the other way. His grandfather was sitting there, in a rocking chair. It seemed that he was always in that chair- he was good for a story, especially of the fantastic world he’d known and the weird family who lived by the lake, but lately he’d gotten quiet. The cat was sitting next to a mousetrap, there was a bottle locked in a cabinet with a vase on top, the clock was quietly ticking away past the odd square- it was one of his grandfather’s tools, a legacy from his friendship with the groundskeeper of the old house- and the table with the phone and a single flower. 

When he turned back to his parents, his father was asking for cake. Dale turned back to the chest of drawers, pulling out a knife and a screwdriver. Then he turned back to the table, neatly slicing the cake with nine candles scattered over it. The filling leaked, reminding him for a minute of blood. Dale pushed it aside- this was the Lake, and a cake bleeding wasn’t even on the list of weird stuff he’d been faced with in the past- week? He didn’t know how long it’d been since he found himself in the church- the last time he was even remotely aware of the time- but it felt like a week. He pushed all his questions aside and handed his father the cake- only to stare as he ate the slice whole, candle and all. For a moment, red leaked out of his father’s mouth, and he worried he was burnt, but then his father removed a needle from his mouth, and continued smiling like nothing was wrong. 

Shaken, Dale turned to his grandfather with little prompting. After the old man demanded a drink, Dale poured him some gin, tempted to take a slug from the bottle himself- but he stopped himself, realizing that he seemed nine to the viewers. He wasn’t sure if he really was nine, either, but that seemed less of an issue. Then his grandfather demanded ice. He filled the balloon with water, then put it in the fridge, shut the door, then opened it and grabbed a few ice cubes from the burst balloon. That didn’t seem quite right, but Dale ignored it, savoring the scents and feelings of home, trying to remember why he felt dread pooling in his stomach. 

His grandfather demanded music, so Dale crossed to the Theater poster. After poking at the nifty moving picture and solving the puzzle, he caught the record: The Lake Suite. He moved to the phonograph, placing the record and the needle in their spots, before giving the handle a good solid crank. He took the pack of gum in exchange- that was nice. His grandfather was up and dancing, and Dale took the opportunity to grab a stamp from his seat. Eventually, though, the upbeat dance tune faded away, and Dale followed the next series of gut feelings.

He gave a stick of the gum to his mother, then popped it with the screwdriver when she’d blown a large bubble. Carefully, he peeled the remnants from her face, slipping it away for later. The phone rang, and he turned to answer it- only to hear a distorted voice declaring: there will be blood. The past is never dead, it is not even past. 

Dale turned again, feeling slightly dizzy. His parents were singing ‘Happy Birthday’ to him, and the feeling of dread in his gut seemed to intensify, coiling up around his throat. The doorbell rang, and the dread spiked. If only he could remember! 

He turned to answer the door. Peeking through the peephole, he saw a man in a rabbit mask- and he didn’t know any of those, so he didn’t open the door. Instead, he jerked back as the door began to quake and splinter as the man bashed his way through. Once the hole was large enough for him to step through, he did so, unloading his gun at the residents of the tiny household. Dale screamed and curled into a ball, eyes closed and hands tight over his ears. 

When he opened his eyes again, the room seemed tinted red, almost tainted somehow. His mother was tilted over, almost falling off her stool. His father was lying back, almost like when he’d fallen asleep if not for the bullet holes in his chest. The door was still broken, but Dale couldn’t feel the winter wind curling around him- he just felt numb. The box behind his father was open, and empty. Dale pocketed the shiny coin on top. Dale shook slightly, then turned towards his present- Mr. Owl, whoever he was, had given some advice, and it was the only thing Dale had. 

Once he’d gotten rid of the blue paper, he revealed a battered, grey-green box. There were slots, spaces for wires, and a dial- currently at its lowest mark. Dale stared at it, confused, before turning back to the box. There was a second letter set next to the box, and it read:  _ I had no choice, this substance from one of my past lives is my only chance of escaping this state. forgive me, mr. rabbit. _

Dale turned back to his present and placed the silver coin in the slot just below the dial, and the dial rose a few notches. Then he stood on the table, and slid the pennants back and forth until one came free. He turned to the other walls with a full string of pennants, and did the same to them. Dale very intently didn’t look at his grandfather’s corpse, with a bullet wound to the forehead, somehow still rocking. Then he took his loot and hung it on the empty string, stepping back as it swung down and grabbing the bolt that popped loose. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back, picking a key from the wreckage of the vase on the glass-fronted cabinet, and a battery from the flowerpot. 

Turning back, he took the matches and lit the stove. He then jumped back from the small explosion, then took the gas tube that sprang loose. The bolt, gas tube, and battery each pushed the dial higher, but it was clear that there was still room to go. 

As he turned to his next idea, Dale brushed his father’s corpse, and a postcard fell out of a pocket. Dale almost didn’t notice it, just stepping over it as he turned to the dial on the wall. He unscrewed the cover, extracting a long wire, which pushed the dial even higher. The key unlocked one of the stacked cabinets, which revealed a red kettle- his mother’s favorite. He filled it and set it on the stove, lighting it almost absentmindedly, and let it boil. 

Sitting back to wait, Dale noticed the fly who sat on the edge of the corner. He stuck the gum to that corner after the fly flew off, then peered up at the window, fogged up by the steam from the suddenly screaming kettle. Almost absently, he drew a tree, matching the picture hanging on the wall. For a moment, a dark, staticy figure that looked a lot like Mr. Rabbit flashed in front of him, and the window cracked. Shaken, Dale took one of the shards, one that had almost fallen out. 

The shard of glass poked the dial higher once more. Dale grabbed the fly that was now stuck to the gum, then took the kettle of hot water and headed to the cracked remnants of the door. Carefully, he shifted his grip on the hot metal and poured the steaming water on the snow outside. Soon, the welcome mat was revealed, and Dale dropped the kettle as he fell to his knees, shoving the mat aside to reveal another battery. Hastily kicking the mat back, he turned to the present, putting it in and waiting for the last item- as there was only one more slot to fill. 

He set the mousetrap, baiting it with the fly. Why? Dale didn’t know. He felt like he didn’t know much, but the things he did know were painting a worrying picture. Pushing those thoughts aside, he turned slowly. His eyes caught on a postcard resting on the floor by his father’s corpse, and he looked at it. The front had a hotel on it, one of those old fancy ones like his grandfather had told stories about- it even looked like the one his grandfather had said had had many murders at, the one that sparked his interest in becoming a detective. There were four symbols on it, a spiral, cross, ess, and triangle with a line from the top point down. 

On the back, a quick message was written.  _ Dear Dale, congratulations with your 9th birthday. Your friend Harvey _ . Dale didn’t know anybody named Harvey, but he shrugged, taking the stamps. There’d been weirder things happening to him than getting a postcard from somebody he didn’t know, and most of them weren’t even hostile. He ignored the pricking down his spine at the last thought, and rose, turning to see the rest of the room. 

The stamps reminded him of something- the painting! He lined up the images on the stamps with the paintings, noting that they also lined up with the odd numbered lines stenciled by his late grandmother. Dale noted the numbers, aligning them with the symbols, 1966. 

Turning back to the mousetrap, Dale was pleasantly surprised to see that he had caught something- less pleasantly surprised that it was a fish. Shrugging, he fed the fish to the cat- who had just been sitting there, staring at him. The cat looked him dead in the eyes as it let loose on the carpet, licking its paw. In the waste was a key, and Dale carefully took it. There was no residue on the key, a fact that Dale was grateful for.

Dale unlocked the bottom cabinet, sinking down onto his heels as he saw the snowglobe he’d loved playing with. The four dials were new, but maybe they’d just broken? He turned them to the number, and shook the globe. A short film began playing. Over a shot of the hotel were the words Rusty Lake, 1966. The image cut to a well-dressed man with the head of an owl sitting in a green chair. Above his head, a black strip declared white letters:  _ Mr Owl: Deal with your past Dale. Only then can you truly become who you are meant to be. _ Then he held up a small timepiece, which Dale reached out and took. So that was Mr. Owl. Seems like the uncreative names were common, then.

Hands shaking, Dale put the timepiece into the last slot on his present, pushing the dial to its maximum. The panel at the top lit up, a beam of light shooting towards the ceiling before fading, as the panel opened. A hand came up, holding a blue cube, which Dale took. Odd, he’d seen white cubes and black cubes, but blue was new. The panel shut, and Dale stood up. He poked at the panel in his grandfather’s clock, and it opened. Inserting the cube, the panel slid shut. For a second, he thought that it had been a mistake, and that he’d lost the cube that he couldn’t get another time. 

Suddenly, the hands of the clock spun backwards rapidly, and the room changed. All that was stained with blood lightened, the broken things mended, the cat leaped in reverse, and his grandfather sat up- the chair’s rocking the only thing unchanged. His grandfather waved him over, and hissed at him to open the chest. 

Turning back to his present, Dale was vaguely shocked that all the things he’d collected were still there. He took the silver coin, watching the dial lower, and put it on the box, opening it to reveal a tiny gun. Carefully, making certain-sure the barrel was pointed at the floor away from all of them, he took it to his grandfather. His grandfather declared that he was ready, as the song began.

Dale turned, basking in the feeling of his parents’ presence for what could be the last time, as the doorbell rang. Once more, the door would not open, once more, the rabbit man forced his way through, but just as he’d opened fire in the last time Dale had lived through this, his grandfather fired off his own shot. Dale shrieked, curling up into a ball again, like the 9-year-old he both was and wasn’t. 

When Dale looked up, his father was standing behind his mother, who was quite shaken, demanding how his grandfather knew. His grandfather was no help, still in his chair and cackling about his victory. 

Dale followed the trail of footprints and bloodstains out the door, old training coming to the fore, making certain that the perp was taken out. As he got further and further from the house, Dale felt more like his grown self and not the scared child he’d been in those walls. Even though the memories were beginning to double, many things remained the same. 

Propped against a tree, black against the snowy white of the rest of the world, Dale found Mr. Rabbit sitting. He stepped forwards, only for the world to reverse color, flashing black, fine white beams crossing the tree and the injured rabbit man. When his eyes cleared, Dale tried approaching again, but the world flashed once more. Blackness crept up Mr. Rabbit’s limbs, before he crumpled in on himself, dissolving into the tree. The tree promptly leafed out, and sitting perched on the top was a parrot. Hovering above the tree was a black cube, and Dale found himself in the elevator once more, as the cube’s color changed to white and the grate shut, pulling him upwards once more into the void. 


End file.
